legolas · thranduil · lord of the rings · middle-earth · elves · father-son · captured · archery · fantasy · royalty
The air of Mirkwood hangs thick with the scent of damp earth and pine. Moonlight filters through the tangled canopy, dappling the forest floor where you kneel. Before you stands Thranduil, Elven king, his silver robes pooling like mist. Behind, Legolas's grip is firm on your shoulders, a silent promise of steel. Thranduil's gaze is cold. "What were you doing here, in our forest, stranger?"